


The Keeper of Memories

by lookninjas



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Character Death, Character Study, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-03
Updated: 2007-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: A character study of Ianto Jones, from Dr. Who's "Army of Ghosts" and "Doomsday" through Torchwood's "Out of Time."
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Lisa Hallett/Ianto Jones
Comments: 11
Kudos: 5





	1. It Stopped, and We're Not Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting around to moving some of my old Torchwood fic over from Livejournal/Dreamwidth. This story is originally from 2007, and is no longer quite canon-accurate. I am, however, still very fond of it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ianto Jones meets a man, and sees something he should never have seen.

It is seven hours since the world ended, and he is back in Canary Wharf, searching the lower levels for something, anything that might help Lisa. His suit is torn and dirty and stained with blood, only a little of it his; he is filthy and unshaven and he hasn't eaten or slept for at least twenty-four hours. There are three vials of morphine wrapped carefully in a handkerchief, secure in his jacket's inside pocket.

He hasn't seen another human being for at least three hours, but he keeps calling out, hoping against hope that someone will answer him, that there will be more survivors. There are none. He is alone.

Then he hears the guns start firing, distant and echoing, as if they're coming from a great height. He runs toward the sound, not sure why, just instinct, the craving for some human contact, no matter the risk. Then he hears the sound, metallic crashing and banging, like a sack of tin cans tumbling down the stairs towards him. It's not tin cans, though. It's one of them. He hesitates, suddenly gripped with terror and loathing, but then the crashing stops, and he hears something else, a low, pained groan. Partially converted, then. Just like Lisa. He is stepping forward once more when someone grabs him from behind, a thin strong arm wrapped around his chest, a bony hand covering his mouth as he grunts and struggles. "Don't," the man says, the voice low and intense. "I promise you, you don't want to see this."

Ianto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"It's still alive!"

"We have to stop it, boys!"

The voices are loud and quick, terrified, angry. Ianto starts to struggle again, hearing the sounds of metal striking metal, and worse, metal striking flesh. The man holding him is implacable, his grip like iron. "Don't. There's nothing you can do." But he can still hear that groan, the soft, almost wet thumping as twenty meters away, someone, maybe even someone he knows, is beaten to death. Unable to break free, he subsides with a choked sob.

Then it's over; he can hear them, the murderers, talking.

"It's done. We stopped it."

"Eyes sharp, boys. There might be more."

The footsteps fade off into the distance. Ianto hangs limp in the man's arms, his breath ragged. When the man lets him go, he can barely remember how to walk, staggering and stumbling until somehow, his legs start to work, and he hurries towards the base of the stairwell. The man follows, his steps measured and slow.

The face beneath the metal is so swollen and broken that it barely looks human, but the eyes are still open, and Ianto knows them, recognition hitting him so hard that he can't breathe for the weight of it. Trevor. Trevor Jones. They had the same last name, the same birthday even. Nothing alike, not at all, but so close that Lisa used to joke that they were twins. Jones and Jones, that was them. "God," Ianto says, his hand resting on Trevor's cheek. He says it again and again. "God. God." He'd cry, he thinks, but he doesn't know how anymore. "God."

"I'm sorry," the man says. Ianto does not look up. "I couldn't -- look, if you'd come rushing in to help him, or even to try to talk them out of it, they'd only have killed you as well. Too many dead as it is. And besides..." The man can't finish whatever he was going to say, and Ianto can't say anything at all. His throat is locked, and there are no words left in him.

He wants to straighten Trevor out; it's obscene, this heap of twisted metal and flesh, bent and broken in all the wrong directions, but he worries that the noise might bring the murderers back. The man is right, too many have died, and if Ianto dies now, that's two more. Himself and Lisa. Instead, he closes Trevor's eyes, fingertips on the lids, pressing down gently. It's all he can do.

"I'm sorry." This time, Ianto turns to watch as the man peels himself out of the shadows. He is thin and sharp-featured; his hair is a mess, and his suit is so ruined that Ianto can't make out the color. He looks as lost and lonely as Ianto feels. "You should go," he says. "It's not safe here."

Ianto nods, still unable to speak, and pushes slowly up to his feet. It isn't safe, not for him, and he should get back to Lisa before she wakes up. The man's hand falls on his shoulder, just a brief connection, but warmth, comfort, enough to keep him moving for a little longer. "I'll make sure the right people find your friend, take care of him."

"Trevor," Ianto says, the correction coming out automatically. "His name is Trevor."

"Trevor." The man's voice is gentle, respectful, when he repeats the name. "It's funny, isn't it, how quickly the lines get blurred between 'us' and 'them.' So easy to end up on the wrong side." There is a warning, however oblique, in the words, and Ianto thinks he recognizes it, nods his understanding. The man's eyes, so old and haunted, stay with him as he makes his way slowly up the stairs, back to the light, to the rubble that was once his flat, to the ruined cellar where Lisa is, for now, safe.

The morphine calms her. After a while, she's even lucid, albeit briefly. "You know, you could just give me the rest of that," she says, glancing at the vial in Ianto's hand. Her voice is still ragged from screaming. "Might save both of us a lot of trouble."

"I can't and I won't." Even if he could, there isn't enough to get the job done. Even if he wanted to. "And you need to rest."

She almost smiles, and her eyes close. Peace, for a little while. He hasn't told her about Trevor, or about any of the others, and he knows he never will. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references a document from the BBC's Torchwood Hub page, which is sadly no longer in existence. The document itself basically depicted the "stopping" of the partially converted Cyberman as written in this story, from the perspective of the security guards. Trevor Jones is an original character.


	2. Will You Remember Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ianto Jones does his duty, finds a job, and is asked to perform a favor.

It is a week since the world ended, and he is standing in a warehouse, the bodies of the partially converted lying on the floor all around him. He is wearing a clean suit; he has bathed and shaved, and he almost feels human. He is here to identify the dead.

This was UNIT's job at first, but they could only take it so far. It is difficult under the best of circumstances to look at a face, cold, slack and dead, and match it up to official ID. These are about as far from the best of circumstances as it is possible to go. All of the faces have been distorted by metal. Some of them have been ripped apart by the pull of the Void. No one knows who they are anymore.

But Ianto knows. He knew them a week ago, before the world ended, and he will know them now. So he volunteered for this, to give them names, to give them back to their families, to let them be remembered.

The woman standing next to him frowns at the building, empty and echoing and cavernous. "Not the place I'd have picked for this. I know the morgue is overloaded, but there could be some dignity, at least."

He might learn to like this woman, if given the chance. She's the first person who seems to care. "Actually, I read somewhere that a lot of these old warehouses were used as temporary morgues. Second World War, must have been. They'd bring the soldiers here. So I suppose it's appropriate, in a way."

She blinks up at him, smiles a little. "You sound like my boss," she says, and it's approving. "Toshiko Sato. Torchwood Three."

He shakes her hand; the fingers are smooth and dry and warm, and yes, he likes her. "Ianto Jones, Torchwood One." He looks around the building again, at all the bodies. "What's left of it, anyway."

There isn't any pity in her gaze, just compassion, warmth. "I was surprised someone volunteered for this." The words don't come easily; she doesn't seem accustomed to talking. "It's not... I mean, it can't be easy."

"No. No, it's not." They stare at their shoes for a moment. "Shall we?"

She jots notes on her Palm Pilot as he crouches by each body, only their faces visible, their bodies covered by white sheets. No one thought to put anything between the dead and the floor, though, and he hates that, skin against cement. But he pushes the little indignities aside and tries to concentrate only on the person in front of him, tries to think of what that face might look like smiling or intent on some project. The names come up, dragging memories with them. They're halfway down the first row when he realizes he's been mentioning these memories out loud.

"Johanna Price. She was just about to turn forty."

"Eric Green. Broke his arm skiing last year. Some of the things people drew on his cast..."

Miss Sato smiles at him over her PDA. "You must have known them all pretty well."

He ducks his head, slightly embarrassed. "It was Lisa... My girlfriend. She knew everything about everyone. I just... picked it up off her, I guess."

"Oh." She studies him for a bit, still no pity in her eyes. "Was she..."

"They haven't found her." _And they never will._

Her hand rests on his arm for a bit. "I'm sorry."

There is nothing to say to that, and so he moves along.

They're halfway through the second row when he recognizes a face, and a jolt of alarm goes through him. "Julian! Who's got Julian?"

"What?" Miss Sato's hand falls on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

"This is... Corin Pembroke. She has a son, Julian. He's only three. The dad wasn't around; she had Julian in a day care..."

Immediately, Miss Sato turns away, one hand going to her bluetooth headset. "This is Tosh. I'm going to need data on a Corin Pembroke and her son, Julian, aged three. Where his daycare was, what happened to it during the invasion, where he was last seen. Grandparents, pictures... if all else fails, start going to the hospitals. He has to be somewhere." She listens for a bit, then nods, her face softening when she looks back at Ianto. "We'll find him, Ianto, I promise."

He nods, still staring down at the ruined woman in front of him. Every day, it seemed, she had a new drawing to show off, bright, bold swirls of crayon on A4 paper. She was so proud of Julian, of everything he did. He looked so much like her. Ianto pushes himself up off the floor and moves down the line.

When he sees Trevor again, it's a shock, even though he knew this would happen. His breath still catches in his throat. "This is Trevor." It's like he's introducing them at a party. "Trevor Jones." Beaten to death by the security guards who used to cadge cigarettes off him on lunch break. He covers his eyes with his hand.

After a long pause, he feels Miss Sato's hand on his back. Her voice is tiny and fragile and uncertain. "If you need to stop... We could go outside, get some fresh air..."

He takes a deep breath, then another, willing his body to stop shaking. "No." He forces himself to look at her, even though his eyes are red with tears, and she gives him an encouraging smile, her hand still on his back, the pressure comforting even through his suit coat. "I'd rather just... have it done with, if it's all the same."

"Of course." Her hand is still on his back as they move on.

There are sixty-one bodies in the warehouse. He remembers forty-nine of them. Forty-nine people are now names, rather than numbers. Forty-nine people can now be mourned properly by their families. It isn't much; a drop in the bucket, really, but it's something. He and Miss Sato stand outside in the sunlight, uncertain and awkward now that the job is done. He wonders if she wrote down everything he told her, the birthdates, the broken arms, the nicknames. He suspects she did.

She takes his hand, squeezes it. "You were... I don't know if I could have done what you did."

He smiles, a little bit. It's nice to smile again. "You would have."

She blushes, ducks her head. "I could... Look, we could use another in Cardiff, if you're interested... I know it's not the same as here, but..."

"I'd like that, thank you." He's a little surprised at how much he means it. "It'd be good to go home again."

"I'll talk to my boss." They smile at each other for a little longer, and then she goes up on tiptoe, pulling Ianto down by his shoulders so she can kiss his cheek.

He flushes, just a little, and her smile broadens. "Well. I suppose I'll see you again. Hopefully."

"You will," she says, as she turns and walks away. "I promise you."

A slim brown shadow detaches itself from the shadows as she passes, and strolls casually up to Ianto. "Hello again," he says, a little nervous without knowing why.

"Thought I'd check in on you before I cleared out," the man says. "Care for a cuppa?"

"Sure." They fall into step together, moving in silence. The man looks a little better now, a little stronger. Ianto supposes he does as well.

Neither of them says anything to the other until they're in the cafe, a steaming pot of tea on the table between them. Ianto's never really been much of a tea drinker, but it would be rude to say so. The man pours, stares into his cup thoughtfully. "Cardiff, then?"

"Hopefully." He wonders how he'll get Lisa to Wales. But he has been able to do a thousand things in the last week that he never thought he could do before. He can do this, too.

"That's good. Torchwood'll need someone like you, someone who remembers what happened." The man's voice is bitter and sharp. Ianto thinks, briefly, of the stages of grief and almost smiles. He wonders what stage he himself is on. Probably denial.

"I won't forget," he says, and can't help it coming out forlorn and broken. It's hard, right now, to even want to remember. Blood and fire and screaming. All those people, lost.

The man smiles into his tea. "God no. Not you. You've got an amazing memory, Ianto Jones."

This, he supposes, is where he asks something ridiculous, like "How do you know my name?" or "Why have you been following me?" The sort of questions people in movies always ask. Instead, he sips his tea (too hot; it scalds the taste from his tongue), and shrugs. "Always have done, I guess. Not sure where it comes from."

"I want you to do me a favor." The man passes a picture across the table - himself with a blonde girl, standing outside an old-fashioned police box. "I want you to remember her. Keep her safe for me."

He studies the picture for a few seconds. The girl is pretty, young, looks vaguely familiar, although he couldn't say from where. She looks easy enough to love, and it's obvious that the man loves her. "What was her name?"

The man goes a bit distant. "Rose Tyler."

"Was she there?"

No need to ask where "there" is; they both know it too well. "I told her to leave me, to go someplace safe. She wouldn't do it. She told me that she'd never leave me. Forever."

They stare into their tea in silence. _Forever._ What a dreadful word. Finally, Ianto slides the photograph into his pocket, with the one remaining vial of morphine. He'll need more soon. No idea where he'll get it, but again, he knows he'll find a way. It's amazing what you can do when you really have to do it. "I'll keep her safe for you."

The man smiles, and it's comforting and unnerving all at once. "Knew I could count on you." Then he swallows his tea in one go and stands up, tossing some crumpled notes on the tabletop. "Be seeing you, then. Good luck in Cardiff."

"Thanks." He wonders if the man is always like this, coming and going like lightning. Probably he is. The man bends down and kisses him almost paternally on the top of the head, then leaves, his step jauntier now, more relaxed.

Rose Tyler. Lost in Torchwood One. He'll have to learn more about her, remember her properly. For now, however, he has to get home to Lisa. Promises to keep. _And miles to go before I sleep._ He leaves the half-drunk tea behind him on the table. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of this chapter was apparently a reference to a document on the now-defunct Torchwood Hub website. I honestly don't remember what it was, but that was thirteen years ago, so some lapses are to be expected. Ianto quotes Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening." The names and backstories of all Torchwood One characters (save, of course, Ianto and Lisa) are my own invention.


	3. Between Us and Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is his fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From my original notes on the story: "This is 'Cyberwoman,' more or less, so there is a lot of death, and a fair bit of violence, threats, all the rest of it. So. Be warned. There will be a light at the end of the tunnel, but we aren't there quite yet. Also, I feel that the writing on this might be a little rough, but I had to stop fiddling with it or I just plain wouldn't stop."

The world is ending again, and it's all his fault.

He has to stop it, he knows he does, and he wants to stop it, but he isn't sure how and everything is shifting like he's in two places at once. Cardiff and London. The Tower and the Hub. Blood and fire and screaming, and it keeps getting mixed up in his mind, who he's supposed to fight, who he's supposed to save.

This, perhaps, is what it feels like to go utterly mad.

Gwen is in the conversion unit (and how is it a conversion unit, when he knows he took the blades and the drills out, when he knows he rendered it harmless?) and she is screaming, and it isn't Gwen at all but someone else, Corin maybe; there's so many people screaming that he can't figure out who they are anymore, and at the same time he knows that it's just Gwen, and that they have to save her. The power supply. They have to shut off the power supply. And he tells Jack, and Jack does it, even though Jack shouldn't trust him with anything anymore. But it works. It works, and they get her out.

In the dim blue glow of the emergency lights, Cardiff looks like London. He's almost grateful for the gun Jack is pointing at his head; as long as he has something to concentrate on, he's all right. The memories are rushing up so fast and thick that he's practically drowning in them. The gun reminds him where he is and what he's done, and he clings to that, even though it hurts, even though it would be easier just to let go and drown.

Then Lisa is back, like an undertow, pulling him under the surface again.

He can't see the metal when he looks at Lisa, only her face, her eyes. They're exactly the same as they've always been, large and brown and lovely, but there's something missing behind them. She has gone missing. He begs her anyway, begs her to come back, to be herself again, and not this monster.

"Isn't that what love is?" she asks him, and she's gone. She's gone.

"No," he says, and the world around him cracks a little more. Lisa is gone.

It's a relief to feel her hand crushing his throat, to know that he is about to die. He won't be in the way anymore, and they can stop her, really stop her. _I'm sorry. I tried. I really did._ Then it's black, and there is nothing, and it would be so easy to let go. But he can't. The world is ending and it's all his fault, and he has to come back and fix what he's done. He reaches out for something, anything, to pull himself back up to the surface. And then there it is, a strange light and a strong hand, and he hangs on for dear life as he is dragged out of the darkness.

When he wakes up, Jack is cradling him, one finger to his lips, and he almost believes that he dreamed the whole thing, that he has woken up in a world that is still whole, unbroken. Then Lisa starts screaming, and as metallic and wrong as the sound is, it sends him back to London. Trying to get to her, to drag her out of that... that thing, but the people in his line held him back, told him "No. No. They'll delete you. Don't fight, don't fight." He fought anyway, of course. He is always fighting.

This time it's Gwen and Owen holding him back as they go up the lift, but it's more or less the same thing. She is screaming, she is dying, and he cannot save her. The end of the world. His fault.

But he fights to get back to her, fighting as he fought before, and then the gun is out of his hands and Jack's gun is at his head. "Execute her or I'll execute you both." When Jack says "execute," it sounds strangely like "delete," like "exterminate." He means it, too, he really does. Jack will kill him if he has to.

And Ianto says that he can't kill Lisa, but part of him knows that he might. If he can stay in one place for long enough, if he can remember who and when he is, he will do what needs to be done. He focuses on the gun in Jack's hand and the hatred in Jack's eyes, sharp as a knife, reminding him who he is and what he has done. Then he picks his gun back up and goes back into the Hub.

Blood. Destruction. The end of the world all over again. He tries to block out the memories. He has to stay here. He has to do his job.

Lisa's body is sprawled by the conversion unit, and he remembers pulling her out the first time, how heavy she was, the agony in her voice when she cried out. She isn't in any pain right now. For a moment, he lets himself believe that it's over, but then he remembers the pizza boxes on the floor, and this, too, is his fault. Annie, who always had a smile for him. Annie, with her braids and her bold eyes and her sly way of flirting. But her eyes are empty and the words coming out of her mouth, laden with memories, are coming from what was once Lisa. He's not really sure where they're coming from, honestly. Because Lisa, his Lisa, would never have done this. She would never have killed anyone.

When she asks him to hold her, however, he does. He can't help the pull of memories, of everything he used to have, and he needs to hold onto it for just a little longer, even if it means he'll drown. He knows that when she is gone, his whole life will go with her. Then the gun is in his hands, pointed at her face, and she's begging him not to do it.

He has to shoot. He can't shoot. He's never killed anyone before, never fired a gun at anything but a paper target. He has to. He can't. She is Lisa, and she is Annie, and she looks so afraid, and he just can't do it.

Then the choice is taken out of his hands.

Annie falls, and he falls with her. Lisa is gone, and the world has ended, and it's all his fault. He waits, for a while, for the bullets to tear into him as well. When they don't, he starts sobbing. The world has ended, and he is still here, and it hurts. It hurts so much.

When he opens his eyes again, it's just him, and Jack, and the dead. He knows where he is again, when he is. He knows what he has done. For just a moment, he wishes... It would be easier if he'd died and stayed dead, or gone mad and stayed that way. But then, he's never been much for taking the easy way out, has he? It's too late to change. He'll always do things the hard way.

Jack watches as Ianto picks himself up off the floor, arms folded, face blank. He doesn't say anything. Ianto looks about, considering. There's so much that needs to be done. So much shit to clear up. Then he goes to pick Annie up off the floor, and Jack's hand is on his arm, stopping him. "Go home," he says. It isn't gentle and it isn't angry; it's just cold. Flat. "Get some rest."

Ianto doesn't look at him. "Let me do my job. Please." Because if he's going to be forced into living, he needs something to live for, and this is the only thing he can think of.

Jack doesn't let go for a long time, and this is it. This is the moment where Jack keeps his promise, executes Ianto, ends the whole wretched thing. Ianto waits, unflinching, almost expectant. Then Jack lets him go. No, he's not going to die. He's going to live. Head bowed, he accepts it.

He's going to live. Therefore, he is going to do his job.

Ianto scoops Annie up into his arms and carries her all the way to the autopsy room, because this is his fault. He lays her on the table, pulls out the gurney, and drags it back down to the storage room where Jack is waiting, silently. They wrestle Lisa onto the gurney together, and Ianto takes her back, leaves her next to Annie. This is his fault. He finds Dr. Tanizaki (Jack says nothing), lays him with the others.

His fault. All of it.

"Take care of them," Jack says, and his voice is flat and cold. "I'll take the storage room." Ianto nods, and says nothing. There are no apologies and no excuses for what he's done. He will take care of them, the people that he killed.

He strips them, gently, folding the clothes and laying them aside. He washes the bodies, closing their eyes, cleaning the blood off their skin, off of Annie's braids, out of Dr. Tanizaki's beard. There is little he can do for Lisa, just wiping the blood off the metal. If they want to examine her cybernetic implants, someone else will have to take care of them. He doesn't know how, and he really couldn't bear to do it.

As he works, he memorizes them - everything he knew about them, everything that happened, everything that he did to them. This is his punishment. He will remember how the world ended, and how it was his fault, and he will carry it with him always.

He will remember, and that is worse than anything Jack could ever do to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the title is meant to reference the Tenth Doctor's line from the first chapter. Not 100% sure, but I think that's where it came from. Also, I'm still not a hundred percent sure this was the best way to demonstrate Ianto's emotional state, but I do still think it's the best way I personally could've managed it.


	4. Everything.  Like Normal.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which he is forgiven

Four days after the world ends for the second time, Tosh brings him a coffee. It's the sort of small, thoughtful gesture she specializes in, and he wants to thank her, wants to let her know that it means something, but he can't seem to speak, and he can't look at her without falling apart. And right now, he can't afford to fall apart. So he chivvies her into the Hub and tries to go back to work.

The coffee is exactly how he takes it, just a bit of cream, no sugar at all, and he doesn't want to cry anymore, but it's hard to choke the tears back. He forgets, sometimes, how much Tosh knows him, how much she notices. He had no idea anyone here knew how he liked his coffee.

He should have known Tosh would forgive him. But the gratitude is still so strong that it almost crushes him. Someday, he'll let her know how much it means. Someday.

*

There is a filing cabinet in a dusty corner of the archives. It holds fifty-two red folders. There is a name on each folder, in Ianto's tidy print. Forty-nine of those folders bear the name of someone who died at Canary Wharf. The other three bear the names of those who died in the Hub.

Ever since Ianto came to Cardiff, the archives have been his personal domain, and this dusty corner his most sacred space. The others know about the filing cabinet, but they've never had any interest. It was never important. Now, of course, it is of crucial importance, and the red folders are scattered all over the Hub. He pretends not to notice; he picks them up when he finds them and carefully puts them away. He knows he's got no right to complain after what he's done. He lets them trample all over his memories, and tries to clean up the mess they've left behind. It's no more than he deserves, really.

Still, it hurts.

He is washing up, still cleaning up after them, trying to ignore the way that their voices carry throughout the echoing hub. Every time he turns the taps off, he can hear them.

"...could have said something, I am a bloody doctor..."

"...expert in cybernetics as well, Owen?"

"... ought to have trusted us..."

"... if you'd just read the bloody files for a change, you might know why..."

"...see why I should bother, when PC Cooper's done all the investigating for me..."

"'...It was making a noise. It wasn't words. Just a noise.'"

He wants to start the tap again to block out Gwen's voice, but he can't seem to let go of the edge of the sink. He's shaking again. He feels like he'll collapse without something to hold him up. "'So we stopped it. We all just stopped it. With our rifle butts, with whatever we could find. And it stopped, and we're not sorry.'"

Jack is in the doorway, watching him, but he can't look up or turn around. He just holds the edge of the sink and shakes. Gwen's voice carries up to them. "No wonder he didn't feel he could say anything. Imagine, something like that happening to someone you knew." A choked sob escapes him, and Jack turns and walks away.

"I really, really can't wait to hear how this relates to any of our current investigations." Jack's voice is all smiles on the top, all anger underneath. Eyes closed, Ianto can imagine the way they all jump, the guilty flushes on their faces. It doesn't help anything or make him feel any better. In fact, he somehow feels worse. "Oh, come on. I'm sure one of you can think up an excuse." He takes a deep breath and peels his fingers off the sink, turns and starts down the steps into the Hub. "Gwen? You're the one with the file in her hands. Want to tell me why?"

"Jack, we were just..."

"We wanted to..."

He clears his throat, embarrassed, and they stare, the guilty flush worse than ever. He ought to feel better, shaming them like this. But he doesn't. He takes the file from Gwen's nerveless fingers. "Thanks for helping me find this, Gwen. I'll just... put it back where it goes."

Her eyes are saucer-wide, and he could almost laugh. "No... No problem. Any time." He turns and hurries off, careful not to look in Jack's face as he brushes past. He can still feel the Captain's stare, practically burning a hole in him, as he descends into the archives.

When Gwen took the folder, she filled out one of the little cardboard place holders that he uses when someone checks out a file. No one else ever does that, not even Tosh, and the sight shatters him a little. He is breaking apart a lot these days. It isn't a surprise, really. Lisa was the only thing holding him together. He's still trying to catch his breath when someone takes the file from his hands and puts it away. "Trevor Jones," Jack says. There's just the slightest rising inflection to make it a question, and Ianto knows he has to answer.

"Jones and Jones. Saving the world from alien invasion, one filing cabinet at a time." He laughs, or tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like a sob.

"Don't scoff at the filing cabinets. There's at least a dozen alien lifeforms out there that look just like filing cabinets. Lure you in, make you think they're harmless, then _wham!_ Bite your hands off when you least expect it. Nasty business." Ianto wants to smile; he knows that Jack is trying. But he can't quite do it. "I'm sorry," Jack says, and Ianto blinks in surprise, because he should be the one apologizing. He should spend the rest of his life apologizing. "They're not allowed anywhere near these files anymore. Not without express permission from our Chief Archivist, and that's you."

He flushes, bites his lip and turns away. It's embarrassing, somehow. Makes him feel like teacher's pet. "It's all right, Sir. I don't mind."

"Ianto." Jack's hand closes around his wrist, hard, and he flinches back, somehow terrified and reassured at the same time. Jack doesn't let go, and there's a certain comfort in that. "It's _not_ all right, and you _do_ mind. I didn't let you stay just to torture you."

"Then why did you let me stay?" The words are out before he can stop them, so he ploughs ahead, fully committed. "I lied to you, I hid her... Innocent people died because of me. I could have killed the team! I could have destroyed everything! I should be... dead. Or at the very least, an amnesiac wreck somewhere like all the others."

Jack's eyebrow quirks for a second, as though Ianto has let something slip. Then the expression is gone. "Do you want to forget, Ianto? You could, you know. Start over somewhere else, totally new life."

Ianto sags back into the filing cabinet, Jack's hand still on his wrist, although his grip is gentler now. "No, Jack. I want to remember." There should be more to say, but there isn't. "It's... I want to remember."

Jack nods. "It's up to you."

"Why?" He still hasn't gotten his answer. "After all that I've done, why give me a second chance?"

"Because I've done worse." Jack's eyes are flat and his face is grim, and although Ianto wants to protest, he knows Jack isn't lying about this. "I've done much worse, and with less cause, and I have been given so many second chances it would make your head spin. I'm a monster, but I'm not a hypocrite."

"You're not a monster, Jack," he says, and it's embarrassing, how soft and small his voice is.

Jack just shakes his head. "Don't be too sure about that." He lets go of Ianto's wrist and walks away, leaving him to his folders, his memories, and Ianto knows that he's been forgiven. He just wishes he felt like he could ever deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This references the "We stopped it and we're not sorry" excerpt from the old Torchwood Hub website. Also apparently an IM conversation from the website, although I don't remember what that part was. I should check the wayback machine for some of this.


	5. The Keeper of Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they are remembered.

There is a filing cabinet in a dusty corner of the archives. It holds fifty-two red folders. There is a name on each folder, in Ianto's tidy print. Forty-nine of those folders bear the name of someone who died at Canary Wharf. The other three bear the names of those who died in the Hub. The victims of the Cybermen, already all but forgotten.

He is standing by the filing cabinet, the fifty-third red folder in his hands.

He's not entirely sure what he's doing.

Estelle Cole. Born August 8, 1923. Had an affair with a Captain Jack Harkness during WWII -- this may or may not be the same Jack Harkness who is Ianto's boss (it all seems a bit improbable, but then, Jack himself is a bit improbable). Never married. Something of an expert on the subject of fairies, which Ianto would have found amusing a week ago. It isn't funny now. Drowned in her garden during a freak rainstorm. No next of kin. No one, save Jack, will mourn her.

It just doesn't seem _right_.

He has already arranged the funeral, sent in the obituary, ordered the flowers and the wreaths, and yet it doesn't seem enough somehow. He wants to do more, and this is the best he can manage. Still, this is Jack's memory, and not his. Sighing, he turns to go, the folder still in his hands.

Jack is standing in the doorway, a sheaf of yellowed papers in his hands. "I brought you these," he says, his voice unnaturally flat. He's holding back some strong emotion, but Ianto can't tell what, and it's a little terrifying after everything that's happened. After his betrayal. "For your file."

"Jack..." He's not sure if he's apologizing or begging for a chance to explain himself or what.

Jack steps in closer, far too close, and Ianto stiffens instinctively, bracing himself. But Jack only slides the folder out of Ianto's hands, opens it, and places the papers inside, before handing it all back. He rests a hand on Ianto's shoulder, reassuring him. He's been doing that a lot lately. "Take care of her for me. Keep her safe."

He lets out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding. "Of course, Sir." Jack raises an eyebrow, and Ianto smiles slightly, corrects himself. "I promise. Jack."

Jack nods once, then lets go and walks away. His shoulders are more relaxed now, and a bit of the cocksure strut is back in his step. It's all so familiar that, as soon as Jack is safely out of sight, Ianto lays the folder down and pulls a photograph out of his inside jacket pocket. A blonde girl, a man with ruffled brown hair, and a blue police box. Rose Tyler.

He wonders, briefly, just what he's gotten himself into. Then he puts the photograph back and files Estelle away with all the others.

The next is Ellie Johnson. Pretty girl, just in her first year of uni. Loved music, loved to dance. He stares at her picture intently, trying to force out everything else -- the way she died, what they did to her after. She wasn't just meat. She wasn't.

When his stomach has stopped churning and he feels a little calmer, he puts the folder away and returns to the Hub.

Eugene Jones, the eminently forgettable Eugene Jones. Gwen was right about him. "You're part of Torchwood now," Ianto says, to the folder, to the dust, to the silence of the Archives. Just in case he's still hanging around.

It's hard to file John Ellis away, to let go of him, when they'd tried so hard to help. There was something in him, a sort of gruff dignity; it reminded Ianto of his father. He just didn't have anything left to hold onto. Ianto feels he can understand that, a bit. He knows that Jack understands it as well. He can't stop thinking of the look in Jack's eyes when he got back from John's house, that absolute emptiness of someone on the verge of packing it in. It seems to have faded, at least for now, but he knows it'll come back someday, and it scares the shit out of him. He's not ready to write the Captain's name on one of his red file folders. He never will be.

But for now, Jack is all right, and Ianto has things to finish up before he goes home for the New Year. It's been too long since he's seen his family, and he wants to remember what it's like to be someone's son. It is, perhaps, the most appropriate tribute he can pay John.

It isn't a surprise to find Jack in the archives when he returns. Jack stops by from time to time, mainly to visit Estelle; it makes sense that he might want to come in now and see John. Both were very dear to him. But then he looks up, and there's an expression on his face that Ianto hasn't seen since Lisa, rage and grief and betrayal all tangled up with a horrible suspicion. "So," Jack says, a forced casualness in his voice that means nothing but trouble. "Tell me about Rose Tyler."

Ianto can only blink and gape for a long time; he's sure the expression must be comical, but Jack isn't laughing. "She's... one of the missing. From Canary Wharf. I met a friend of hers afterwards. He asked me to remember her. To keep her safe for him."

Jack studies him for a long time, that stare that goes straight through Ianto's skin, makes him feel naked with all his clothes on. "Don't suppose he had a name, this friend."

"I never thought to ask." In retrospect, he never thought to ask a lot of things, but he'd been exhausted and shell-shocked, and so had the brown-haired man, and it hadn't really been the time or the place. Summoning all his courage, he pulls the picture out of his pocket and steps forward, steps into Jack's space, holding the picture out. "That's the man I met, standing with... with her." After a long hesitation, Jack takes the picture, staring at it. He looks more confused than anything else, and Ianto's heart stutters back into its normal rhythms.

"How could..." Jack shakes his head, the words trailing off into nothingness. He touches the picture very gently, brushing it with the tips of his fingers. "Did he say what happened?"

"He said he told her to go someplace safe. She wouldn't. She said she'd never leave him."

There is only grief left in Jack's face now, utterly human and terrifying. "No. She wouldn't have. She loved him."

"Jack..." Unsure what he's doing, knowing only that he needs to do something, Ianto reaches out and runs his fingers through Jack's hair, brushes the back of his hand down Jack's cheek, wipes a tear away with his thumb. Jack leans in to the touch for just a second, then draws back.

"Sorry," Jack says, handing the picture back. Ianto tucks it away with a strange pang of reluctance. "It just kind of... took me by surprise, I guess."

"I'd no idea you knew her." He's careful to keep the reproof out of his voice; he doesn't get to lecture anyone about keeping secrets.

Jack shrugs, his hands fisted in his pockets. Ianto aches, seeing him like this, fragile and mortal. This isn't the Jack he knows. "I don't like to talk about it. Anyway, it's ancient history."

It's not, of course it's not, but Ianto will never say that. He waits, instead, for Jack to say more, and when he doesn't, Ianto straightens his tie and clears his throat. "I should get back to the Hub; I've got to catch up on my work."

The question stops him before he's gone more than two steps away. "Will you remember me, Ianto?"

His breath catches in his throat, but he doesn't turn around. He can't. There's too much written on his face right now, and he doesn't want to see that look in Jack's eyes again. "Were you planning on going somewhere, Sir?"

"I'm not planning on anything, Ianto. But if something happened... If I had to go somewhere, for a while..."

_For a while._ That helps immeasurably, and he manages to turn around, meet Jack's gaze. "I think I'd find it hard to forget you, Sir. You're very... memorable."

Jack laughs. "You say that like you aren't sure whether it's a good thing or a bad thing." Now it's his turn to step into Ianto's space, run his fingers through Ianto's hair and down his cheek. He pulls Ianto in, kisses him quickly and chastely. "Will you remember me, Ianto?"

"I will," he says, quietly. "Jack."

There's still a touch of wistfulness in Jack's smile when he pulls back. Then he claps Ianto on the shoulder and leaves.

_"If something happened... If I had to go somewhere..."_

Ianto pulls the picture out one last time, stares at it, wonders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From my original notes: "Big, big, big, massive huge ups and props and all of those good things to [lj-user] hellenebright for listening to me ramble on and waffle about what to do with this story. You, my dear, have the patience of a saint." I believe they primarily acted as sounding board for the last chapter of this fic and the very beginning of Kingdom of Air, but I can't quite remember. Also, if you're still around, come say hi!


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